


Coda

by AtlinMerrick



Series: Sup From My Mouth [2]
Category: Anna Karenina (2012), Kylux adjacents - Fandom, Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Domestic, M/M, Stand-alone chapters, love and love and love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-11
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 20:08:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 3,491
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25202221
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AtlinMerrick/pseuds/AtlinMerrick
Summary: Tiny tales about the daily lives of a Portuguese priest and a Russian aristocrat in love.(You need not have readSup From My Mouthto enjoy these little one-shots about Konstantin Levin and Francisco Garupe, but it may help!)Each chapter stands alone
Relationships: Francisco Garupe/Konstantin Levin
Series: Sup From My Mouth [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1825735
Comments: 82
Kudos: 29





	1. Kostya's Lesson

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wherein a man certain of many things learns he has so many things to learn. 
> 
> Or the very short story of how Konstantin Levin fell more in love with Francisco Garupe.

Sometimes a man thinks he's done.

He's been a farmer twenty-two years, certainly he knows all about wheat.

He's an uncle, after cuddling six babes through to toddlerhood, he must know all about infants.

And he's a man in love with another man and after one year two months, and three days, well he must be done falling in love?

Wrong.

Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin has lots to learn about wheat and babies yet, and today he'll learn he's still just a student when it comes to falling for Francisco Lorcán Murphy Garupe.

Kostya's first lesson came on an April morning, courtesy of a little lamb.

*

Standing at the kitchen window, ruminating into his cup of coffee, Kostya blinked sleepy eyes at the still-dark morning sky.

Today he'd sow poppy seeds into the schoolhouse garden, yes. And maybe he'd get some onion sets into Siska's plot as well as his own. He really had to get Gregor to grind the wheat, and since the dry weather was holding he could uncover the lambs.

_The lambs._

Bolting his hot brew, Kostya shrugged on his coat and dashed out the door before his mug finished rattling on the counter.

The sky was blushing pink as he opened the barn doors to loud bleating. They'd had a dozen healthy lambs this year, old Reschka herself birthing three, each small and black.

"Siska?"

His sweetheart had fallen in love with the triplets, but after noticing a few days ago the other two were denying—"please don't name her Siska"—Mocinha the teat, Francisco had taken it on himself to bottle feed the fragile babe.

"Siska?"

Yet in the barn Kostya found neither his big love knelt small, nor the little lamb.

Assuming Mocinha had succumbed and Siska was likely burying her, Kostya clucked distracted sympathies as he removed the warming coats from the remaining lambs.

"Spring is on its way," he promised the babies bouncing their wakefulness, and with a final cluck he led the little herd out onto the grass, automatically scanning the horizon, keen to comfort his sweetheart.

Siska always mourned still-born calves and cats and dead chicks, and though Kostya doesn't feel the same sorrows after a lifetime of farming, he understands.

"Where is he?" he asked the lamb snuffling his leg. "Do you think he's at the schoolhouse?" She bleated her negation; today wasn't a school day after all.

Konstantin nodded, turning back to his own house but looking at the bungalow back behind his garden. The small building was set off to the right, Siska's own garden backing up to his. It gave them proximity without…proof. No one could prove that time and again they found themselves in each other's house at night, or prove that Kostya would gaze at the warm light in Siska's windows through his own.

"Baaa!"

Kostya laughed his woolgathering away. "Well of course you're right! I'll go look."

Grinning as he stepped onto Siska's porch minutes later, Kostya raised a fist to knock on his love's kitchen door, but his fist never fell.

His _heart_ did though, quite nicely thank you. How could it not, spying his big love curled small on bedding heaped in front of the warm stove, a lamb nestled close to his chest?

Black against black, Kostya couldn't tell where Mocinha ended and Siska's dark head began, but he _could_ see both were fast asleep amidst the mess of bottles and milk.

He didn't wake them.

Instead Konstantin went back to the business of being a farmer and pondered philosophies with the horses and cows and chickens.

Did love have a size, he wondered? Could it be bigger than a man? A building? A farm? Could he fit all the love he felt into a single lifetime?

"What do you think," he asked Laska, who woofed, long habituated to replying to the rhetorical.

It was just then distant movement caught Konstantin's eyes. He turned to see Siska step out his back door, a big man with a small lamb cradled close in one arm.

Could he fit all of this love into a lifetime, he wondered?

"Come on old girl." Konstantin patted his thigh and turned toward Siska's bungalow.

Well, he could certainly try.

—  
_To the best of my research, Mocinha means Little Lady in Portuguese. Each chapter here will be a stand-alone one-shot. Prompt please! Any what ifs, any curiosities from the story, whatever. Thank you! P.S. Now with[wee moodboard](https://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/623357052059811840/coda-kostyas-lesson-wherein-a-man-certain-of-many) of sleeping Siska and a black bebbe lamb!_


	2. Smiling is for Saints

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Konstantin Levin sings.
> 
> This has an effect on Agafya Mikhailovna whether she wants it to or not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Coda is wee stand-alone vignettes about Konstantin Levin and Francisco Garupe from my much longer story [Sup From My Mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/45783121).

There's nothing like seeing great happiness to make you a bit less grumpy.

To be fair, Agafya Mikhailovna Yelagina lives in a steady state of displeasure. For Konstantin Levin's housekeeper, there will always be too little of something or too much of another, and so when that disgraced priest came to live on Konstantin Dmitrievich's farm? Well, she did what she believed just: committed herself to cold indifference.

Yes, well good luck with that Agafya.

Because water wears down rock, and after weeks, then months, then a year of Konstantin Dmitrievich _singing,_ after twelve months of morning smiles and evening grins, after watching the man she'd helped rear from boyhood stop fretting himself into repeated depressions over this or that or something else again, well even Agafya had to look at the Portuguese priest and not scowl _quite_ so much.

Yes, to Agafya, Father Francisco Garupe would always be a man who had abandoned his faith. She neither knew nor cared about the journey which brought him to Russia, though she'd heard enough to be certain that Christ had suffered more than any simple priest could claim.

Yet Agafya isn't blind. Though the Jesuit had abandoned his proper calling, he'd gone on to another and, in his habitual black clothes—he clearly still favoured what was familiar—he looked like what he was: a minister. Though his ministry now was teaching the local children their sums and letters.

For a woman born long before the emancipation of the serfs, Agafya knew if that learning took root in even just one child or two, that was enough.

So now Agafya somewhat, sort of, occasionally half-smiles when she sees the priest. And sometimes she sends Konstantin Dmitrievich to the schoolhouse with sushki or baranka for the teacher and his students. Not over-often, no, for in their rarity she feels she's making a point.

What Agafya _does_ often do now, as she bakes and cooks and tidies? She smiles when she hears Konstantin sing.

He sings often.

_—_  
_I appreciate so much how Buffy Davis played Agafya in Anna Karenina (2012). She has this incredible grudgingness to her every word and it just speaks of layers that I like poking at a bit. By the by, Coda is wee vignettes about Konstantin Levin and Francisco Garupe from my much longer story[Sup From My Mouth](https://archiveofourown.org/chapters/45783121). I'm always happy to have prompts for this!_


	3. Worth his weight…

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the silent midnight candlelight Siska was suddenly a Jesuit again. He was Father Garupe, a priest grown familiar with self-denial and having little and so, for a moment, he was ashamed of the fat round his middle. 
> 
> But the moment lasted only as long as moments do...

Siska's relationship with food has always been fraught. He likes to eat, he loves wine, yet as a Jesuit he'd learned to eat appropriately for the places he lived.

This might mean thin soups with potatoes, stews rich with spice and vegetables, but always it meant moderation, unlike his life in Lisbon. There his parents had loved cheese and bread and wine, and always there was a garden bountiful, encouraging the _eating_ of cheese and bread, and the drinking of wine.

He'd been barely out of boyhood in those days, whip lean though broad, and he ate and ate and he never knew his body could be–

The fire crackling at his back against another cold Russian night, Francisco looked into his bedroom mirror. It wasn't overlarge, the mirror, showed little more than head and chest, but if he came up close…no, if he stood on tiptoe…no, if he _took it off the wall,_ and propped it on the window sill he could step back…and a little more…and.

–soft. Francisco Garupe looked at himself in the flickering light and saw a chest and belly softer than he'd ever had before.

By late May of last year he'd easily put on ten pounds working on the farm. Christmas saw another ten, and by the Christmas following he again filled out fine old clothes Magda had brought with her from Lisbon. After two seasons of work and good food, much of the weight was muscle.

Siska hadn't noticed that some of it wasn't, the way you don't notice your hair growing until it's grown. Then one day his trousers were tight and… "Oh."

His avó even still probably talks about he and Magda when they were born. "Tiny babies both," she's always said. "Little stick arms and legs and red faces. And hair! Oh I've never seen babies born with as much hair as you two!"

Then she'll tell tales of how the entire family, including four-year-old Lili, worked hard feeding the fussy twins who'd been born early. The work had _worked,_ and by the time they could toddle round the garden on their own, they were fat as late season tomatoes.

Siska rested a big hand on his belly, then pressed his fingers into the flesh and grinned.

That infant tendency toward abundance had clearly returned.

Avó, his mam, his papai, Mady and Lili, the entire family was tall and most were lean, but for some, like his father, age had brought a yielding, softness over the strength. Siska could still see muscles defining his chest and arms, and he'd needed new trousers made to fit thighs that had grown bulky from farm work, but after nearly two years of supping warm buttered coffee from his lover's mouth, of honeyed bread from Kostya's fingers, of sweets and eggs and cream and vodka, the sharpness of bones in Francisco's cheeks and wrists and ankles was gone.

And he couldn't remember the last time he'd been hungry.

Siska's face flushed.

In the silent midnight candlelight he was suddenly a Jesuit again. He was Father Garupe, a priest grown familiar with self-denial and having little and so, for a moment, he was ashamed of the fat round his middle.

The moment lasted only as long as moments do.

Because for every mission Siska had gone on, for all the dreams he'd had and the places he'd been, always the reason had been this: to help make a world without suffering, to bring comfort.

And what was hunger but suffering? What was abundance but comfort?

If he ate little when he lived among those who had little, if he lived as they did, why now should he turn from the plenty around him?

"Aaaah!" Siska threw his hands in the air, annoyed now for no reason he could pinpoint.

"Who are you angry with my dear?"

So far fallen into his ruminations Francisco had forgotten he wasn't alone, and that was an irony for here came Kostya, rattling his way into Siska's small bedroom with a tray heavy with fried bread and port.

Caught up in taking his glass, then caught up together in eating, Siska forgot he'd been asked a question, until it came again.

"What's got you grumpy, Garupe?"

Siska laughed because he loves nicknames and diminutives, he loves words and meanings only the two of them share, but he shook his head and said, "I'm not grumpy. Just…" He reached for the Russian word because over time they're learning one another's tongues, straying ever further from their shared French. "Myshleniye, thinking. About abundance, about," he laughed and cupped his flesh, "bellies."

Konstantin Levin will never be as broad as his meu bem, but he always grows a reedy strength over the seasons of sowing and harvest, biceps swelling, thighs sturdy, a sleek strength that fades fast as autumn moves fleet toward winter. It's then those trim muscles fade to thin arms and legs, and the most delightful of delightful things: a small, butter-succulent belly.

It's this Kostya doesn't poke, no. Instead 37-year-old Konstantin Dmitrievich Levin, landed aristocrat with a wardrobe full of top hats and waistcoats, a man who's bowed to princess, that man, who prefers dirt under his nails and holding the warmth of a freshly laid chicken egg in his hand to a flute of champagne…

… _that_ man gathered his own winter-plump belly in both hands and folded the flesh until his belly button was a mouth and he started to _talk_ to Francisco with it, and good god Francisco Garupe lost the plot entirely, absolutely, there was no plot to be found. There _was_ hysterical laughter, peels of it each time Kostya's belly asked a _question_ and breathing became almost actually truly _impossible_ when Kostya's belly rolls begin to _sing_ and, and, and. And then _Siska,_ who really was more silly than anyone but Kostya knew, his belly began singing _back_ and they really would have to stop putting trays of food and wine on the bed because oh the sheets were a wreck now and they were going to have to strip the bed. But they didn't, it's terrible, it's ridiculous, but after the laughing and the poking of fingers into soft flesh, after kisses and more laughing, they slept on the sheetless bed in a room that reeked of wine and when the dawn came there was snow on the March ground and so Siska went down to his stove and he made buttered coffees and brought up a pot of honey and they ate the remainder of last night's egg bread by the fire and Kostya waited until Siska's swallowed the last of everything before he gathered up his little rolls and made his belly burp.

Though Francisco Garupe was no longer a priest and did not any longer believe in a benevolent god, well still, the man who once was a Jesuit, he raised his gratitude and praise for this abundance to the roof beams by again entirely losing the plot, laughing so hard he slid right off his fire-side chair.

The snow fell harder.

(And so did they.)

—  
_I love, love, love the idea of a beneficent life for a man who had been willing to suffer to create less suffering. I love Siska. (Coda will continue, but this is marked as complete since each chapter stands alone.)[Moodboard](https://atlinmerrick.tumblr.com/post/642771192474894336/worth-his-weight-in-the-silent-midnight)!_


	4. Still New

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He'll be thirty-seven soon, will Francisco Garupe, and for almost all of that his libido was ignored, denied, non-existent.
> 
> Now he lives and works on the farm of Konstantin Levin, whose body is made alluring by his beauty, his willingness, and oh so very much by his want.

"Alô meu bem."

Konstantin Levin climbed Francisco Garupe's back porch, took a seat in a low wood chair, and ran a forearm across his sweaty face.

Sat silent beside him, Francisco continued scraping under his fingernails, heavy with the dirt of sowing. For long moments they watched the clouds scud across the setting sun.

"You have an erection, meu bem."

Muzzle lifted to the summer breeze, Laska glanced over as if she'd heard. Francisco said nothing, as if he hadn't.

The dog continued wandering between their nearly-joined gardens, eventually settling amidst a tangle of tomato plants.

When Siska passed him twenty minutes ago, Kostya assumed he'd finished his field work. Usually he'd help whoever lagged, but now Kostya knows what sent his love from the field early, hiding on the back porch of his little cottage while the sun slung itself low.

Because Kostya knows Siska's tells, after a half year visiting his lover's bed, Kostya knows his blotchy blush now is nothing like the smooth flush he gets from too-hot days.

"I forgot myself my love, I'm sorry."

Beside him Siska pouted, and Kostya fought a grin. Of all the grace notes in loving Francisco Lorcán Murphy Garupe, perhaps his favourite is how _petulant_ his darling can be.

"It's still new you know!"

Well that was it, that was all it took for Kostya to descend into helpless giggles, and Siska, he would not laugh, he wouldn't…but of all Konstantin's grace notes his _cackle_ is Francisco's favourite, so he threw his head back and joined him.

Because it _is_ funny, oh it is. He'll be thirty-seven, will Siska, and for almost all of that his libido was ignored, denied, non-existent. Now he lives and works on a farm, where men strip to the waist in the worst of the heat, including his Konstantin, his Kostya, his lover who whose body is made alluring by his beauty, his willingness, by his reciprocity. Who welcomes Siska's gaze, encourages, _entices._

And when they're alone, tucked away in one another's homes, when they can love in leisure and in privacy, this is a lush bounty hungrily consumed.

Except.

_Except._

Siska's long-denied libido doesn't always _wait_ for privacy, for closed doors and quiet. Sometimes Kostya will be in light summer clothes feeding the chickens and Siska gets an erection. Or in mucking boots and a cinched shirt in the stables, and Siska gets an erection.

Or he'll stretch and a sliver of belly will show or, or just sometimes, occasionally, today specifically Kostya will be in the field and tie his sweat-soaked tunic round his waist, laughing at something Micka's said, tilting his red-bearded face to the sun before bending to sow again in a sleeveless shirt, chest and arms bare and sleek with muscles and sweat…

…and except then, those times, as Siska moves inexorably toward forty even so he feels himself flush, cock perking, and he has to mutter "Water," though there's plenty under the tree, where sweat-wet shirts drape over low branches, and he hides away on his porch.

Kostya had promised to keep his clothes on, weeks ago he'd swore he'd stop stripping off if it would make life easier for his love, but he'd forgot, he had, and now those pretty lips are pretend-pouting as Kostya stands and smiles.

Francisco's cottage sits behind Konstantin's farm house, two large gardens between them. The cottage is roomy for one man, with a front door facing the garden and a back that has a small porch big enough to shade against the sun, big enough for two chairs, hidden away from the work of the farm, facing nothing but a field decorated with old trees, and dotted with abandoned buildings no longer fit for purpose.

So with the ease of seclusion Siska stood too, swept Kostya up into his arms, and laughed into his salty neck.

He put him right back down again so they could duck fast through the cottage's back door, through the kitchen and down, down, down, one, two _…twelve_ narrow steps and into Siska's tiny brick cellar, its shelves weighted with apples of gold and green and red perfuming the cool shadows. He careful-firm pressed Kostya onto the long and narrow cot there, went to his knees, making breathy sounds until he's freed his love's cock, then Siska folded himself between Konstantin's legs and sucked.

While want was indeed new to him, a cornucopia from which he'd not yet supped enough, _this_ was where Siska loved most to fill himself.

Arms wrapping round Kostya's thighs he leaned forward, crawled onto the bed, his mouth full with the warmth of _Kostya's_ want, and it was the taste of him, the soft-hard of him, the squirming-laughing-sighing delight of him that made Siska's cock heavy and his brain pleasure-dim. For the next little while he wouldn't think of anything outside this small, cool room, his purpose fulfilled when long minutes later Konstantin arched and came.

Siska stayed and stayed and stayed still, concentrating on the blush-heat of Konstantin's skin against his, on the _beat…beat…beat_ of his still-throbbing cock against his tongue, of Kostya's mutters and sighs of satisfaction.

Waiting a dreamy, unhurried time until Kostya went soft, Siska eventually wiggled _up, up, up_ and lay beside his love, who gently put a hand under his chin, drew him close, and parted his lips. They did then what they often do because they want it, because it's a symbol, because it's earthy and lusty and _theirs…_

Siska fed Kostya his own come, bitter, astringent, in no way as sweet as the scent of the apples then, rising to straddle Siska's hips Kostya fed it back to him.

It's still a wonder to a man who was a priest, is now a teacher, one who will always be this man's lover, that the slick, sloppy second-hand _mess_ of this gluts him with happiness, that Kostya feeding him fans lust or contentment or a half dozen other things and more they'll learn over many years.

Even after Siska's youth is a black-haired memory and he's grown sweetly fat, if Kostya brings him buttered bread or honey-sticky fingers, wine-wet lips or a come-wet cock Siska will sup, he will be for Kostya always hungry.

And amidst the sweetness of autumn apples gold, green, and red, Kostya slides down that big body, undoes trousers, and with hungry delight, he sups from Siska, too.

—  
_This was originally meant to be the first Coda, but Kostya had to wonder about the size of love instead. In other news, ReadyTakeTwo prompted with the Slavic holiday of Kupala Night, so that should be the next Coda. Prompt away, too!_


End file.
